Supernatural DISCoveries
by Lampito
Summary: They're both Men Of Knowledge, working behind the scenes, underpaid and underappreciated, to keep their worlds safe from ghastly things. It'd not that surprising that the Librarian and Bobby Singer are well acquainted. And of course, once a path has been beaten through anywhere, including L-space, others can follow. Especially if there's a trail of banana skins or empty bottles.
1. Count To Ten

AAAAAARGH! I blame The Denizens for this, the people who, after I wrote 'Monkey Business', kept wanting to know what would happen if THIS person from the Supernatural Jimiverse met THAT person from the Discworld. I'm supposed to be working on 'Grumpy Old Men', but the bunny went quiet, so this little bastard hopped in, pushed it out of the way, and began to nibble on my keyboard! (Maybe that's why my laptop has recently shat itself...)

There could be a number of chapters with a number of encounters - I'll see how noisy the damned bunny is.

**DISCLAIMER:** None of it is mine, I just squirt them with whipped cream, let the fans in, and watch the fun.

**TITLE:** Supernatural Disc-Overies

**RATING:** T. For rude words. It's that, or sew Dean's mouth shut.

**BLAME:** Lies ENTIRELY with the people who continue to feed by review habit, and breed plot bunnies and send them to me. Probably through L-space. I blame you all.

* * *

**Count To Ten**

_Count to ten_, Sam Vimes chanted to himself_, Count to ten, when you find you're getting angry enough to put a fist through the nearest troll, count to ten._ It was a little trick that Lu-Tze the Sweeper had suggested to him; _You should try counting to ten, Commander Vimes,_ the irritatingly cheerful and optimistic little saffron-clad bugger had said on one of his visits to Ankh-Morpork, _Count to ten, and by the time you get to ten, the urge to punch some smartarse's face right out the other side of his head will have subsided. Or at least, it will have shrunk to the urge to slap him until he cries..._

So, Sam Vimes counted to ten – again – although his hand itched to wipe the smirk right off that face, which although bruised was at once too pretty and too old and knowing for the body below it.

"So, Mr... what did you say your name was?" he asked. _One, two..._

"I didn't," the strangely-dressed man before him replied without missing a beat. Vimes took a small vicious pleasure in watching the stranger hiss in discomfort as Igor attended to what had been diagnosed as a broken wrist; Sam knew from experience that the strange green salve, whilst effective, was disconcerting. It felt as though the bones were wiggling about as they sought to reunite themselves, like the ends of a worm chopped in half by a careless spade looking for each other and yelling "What the hells just happened? Where did you go? Oh, look at that, it'll take a week for that periosteum to knit properly again, how embarrassing..."

"No, so you didn't," Vimes nodded..._ three, four, five..._ "You didn't introduce yourself at all, which is going to make writing up your charge sheet a bit awkward – Corporal Pessimal, bless him, is very keen on keeping the paperwork in order. And it's going to be such an interesting charge sheet – breaking and entering, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer, acquiring actual bodily harm whilst assaulting an officer..."

"That's a crime?" the younger man snorted in disbelief, then winced again, "I broke my hand!"

"We had to do something, Sergeant Detritus was getting a bit funny about it," Vimes told him dismissively. "His Lordship was very understanding about it."

"By rightth, taking a thwing at Captain Carrot should be conthidered a thign of mental incapathity," contributed Igor, "Thith man may not actually be of thound, mind, Mithter Vimeth."

"The big dude? The ginger?" The stranger smirked again. "He's not that much bigger than my baby brother, and I can whup his fluffy butt any day of the week. Your guy has a better haircut, though, I give him that." He cocked an eyebrow. "I don't suppose I could get an introduction to your other sergeant, the blonde? She's got a killer smile."

"You don't know the half of it, son," grinned Vimes nastily, thinking that introducing this... person to Angua would be so entertaining that it was bound to be against the rules somehow. Igor had already treated the burn from the stranger's heavy silver ring, and Cheery was explaining to her that she should probably take the proposition as a compliment, rather than a cue to tear the bastard's throat out.

The strange man sighed wistfully. "But she's spoken for, isn't she?" he said mournfully, "I'd put money on it. She's got that pair-bonded vibe. It's a shame, really, because she's a damned site prettier than the other female werewolf I cross paths with from time to time, in comparison your sergeant look like a champion show dog..."

_Oh, you smug little shit, so casually letting me know that you know... Six... seven... eight... _Vimes wondered just how annoyed the Patrician would be if he just pulled out his sword and ran this bastard through. Or did actually formally introduce him to Angua. Preferably in 'plain clothes'. _ Nine, nine-and-a-half..._

"Now, where was I? Oh yes, your impending award for Most Interesting Charge Sheet Of The Week. Such a pity we don't have a name to put on the trophy. It includes the little matter of murder, and then, there's... this."

Gingerly, he hefted the strange item the strange man had been carrying, amongst his other weapons. It was small, small enough to be held in one hand, clearly of fine workmanship, with mother of pearl inlays. He'd never seen the like of it, but it was clearly a gonne.

A deceptively pretty deadly weapon. Much like its owner, his instincts told him.

His first impulse had been to throw it into the river. The hand-held gonne, that is. Well, he'd also like to do that with its owner, too, if he was honest, but the insufferable smartarse would most likely just walk ashore, and he had to sort out what the hell this... stranger was doing here...

"Be careful with that, it's loaded," the infuriatingly pretty face smirked again.

_Nine-and-three-quarters, ten. Can I slap him now?..._

"You _dare_ bring this into my city!" Vimes hissed angrily, getting into the young thug's space. He had to admit himself grudgingly impressed when the smirk barely faltered, and he didn't move. Fine, sonny, so you've dealt with The Law before. Well, so have I, sunshine, from both sides. "I could have you summarily hanged just for this, and Vetinari would give me a medal for Quick Thinking In The Face Of Insufferable Smartarsery!"

"Hey, it's just a gun!" protested the subject of his wrath, "It's just..." understanding dawned on the bruised face. "You don't have them, do you?" he said slowly, as if he was talking to himself. "You don't have them. Firearms. You're all carrying swords." He suddenly looked thoughtful, then gave Commander Vimes a long, appraising look. "Let me show you how to unload it," he added, holding out his hand.

"Where are you from?" Vimes demanded. "Where the hells did you spring from, and what the hells are you doing here, mister?"

"Winchester," the stranger added. "Dean Winchester."

"A funny name to go with your funny clothes," observed Vimes humourlessly. "So, what are you doing here, Mr Dean Winchester? Besides making my life difficult?" He paused, and tried to wipe the snarl off his face. "I have bodies, Mr Winchester. Besides the one I'm currently occupying. I have dead bodies. Well, a dead body, and a dead undead body. An undead body that is no longer undead. A dead vampire, to be exact, isn't that correct, Igor?"

"Well, technically, I believe tho, yeth," Igor pointed out, "But my initial curthory exthamination thuggethth that it'th not one of ourth."

"Not one of ourth? Er, ours?" Vimes pressed him.

"It's a vampire, Jim, but not as you know it," Winchester supplied.

"Shut up, you. Igor?"

"He hath ethentially nailed it, thir," Igor went on. "It'th definitely a vampire, but not ath we know them. The fangth, for a thtart. A mouthful of them, not jutht the feeding canineth. And, of courthe, he'th thtill there, not crumbled to dutht. I thuthpect there will be other anatomical anomalieth – the retht of the corpthe appearth thtrangely human – but I will not be able to thay for sure until I've completed an autopthy. I had other prioritieth. The dead can wait, thir."

"Indeed." Vimes stared hard at Winchester. "The living take precedence over the dead. And Millie Twizzle was living, for a little while, after you appeared. Well, until you and your vampire-who's-not-one-of-ours appeared, and tried to tear out her throat." Vimes ran a hand over his face. Carrot had already volunteered to go and tell the girl's family. "Igor gave it the old University try, Mr Winchester, but he is not a miracle worker."

"I did my betht, thir," Igor murmured mournfully, "But the young lady had lotht too much blood."

"Just so," noded Vimes. "And so, I have a body, Mr Winchester, and a dead undead dead body that is decidedly undustlike, with its head cut off, because you decapitated it with the biggest gardening knife I have ever seen..."

"It's called a machete," supplied Dean absently, eyes looking at nothing.

"I don't care if you call it Rupert, or Meredith, or even late for dinner," snapped Vimes, "The point is, I have a dead girl, and the anti-Undeadist troublemakers who don't give a damn about Millie will want to use it to power their next hate campaign, and I have a... non-viable vampire, who's been murdered on my watch, ha, if you can even murder one of the bloodsuckers, who's not even one of ours according to Igor, and the Black Ribboners will be howling about that, despite the fact that this leech definitely was not one of theirs, either, and the Patrician will cock an eyebrow at me, and tell me how important it is that we maintain civil relations between diverse ethnic urban communities, or some other such impenetrable admin-speak, then he'll cock the other eyebrow, Mr Winchester, the _other_ eyebrow, and remind me that it's vital to maintain a good working relationship with Uberwald, and he'll use terms like 'balance of trade' and 'diplomatic emissions', which I believe is just another way of saying that all politicians are full of hot air, which may be emitted from either end of them, if you ask me..."

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered, "I'm sorry about Millie."

"Yes, well, aren't we all, it's going to..." Vimes stuttered to a halt, staring at the strangely dressed, strangely armed, strangely speaking man before him.

All the front and swagger had gone out of Dean Winchester. Sam Vimes recognised the slumped posture, the defeated air, and the expression of despair at once. He should do, he'd felt it often enough himself.

Guilt. A sense of failure, and crushing guilt.

"I'm sorry," Dean said again, still staring at nothing. "I didn't know. I thought I was right behind him. I... I should've been quicker. She... did she have family? Has somebody gone to tell them?"

Vimes gaped at the change before him, the wind that had been powering him effortlessly across Lake Outrage suddenly sucked out of his sails.

"Um, yes," he replied, in a more measured tone. "Captain Ironfoundersson is on his way."

"That's good," Dean smiled a small, crushed smile. "I bet he's good at it. I bet he knows just what to say." He looked down at his hands. _I never do_, hung the unspoken comment in the air.

Giving Igor The Look indicating that he should excuthe himthelf, Vimes slid into the chair opposite Dean with a deep sigh. "Mr Winchester... Dean," he began, "What can you tell me about what happened tonight? I have to explain this to the Patrician. My boss," he explained, when he saw the look of incomprehension. "The man who runs this city. Well, I say man, he could well be a weasel standing on a friend's shoulders and wearing a robe. You really aren't from around here, are you?"

"No, no, I'm not," Dean grinned ever so briefly. "Definitely not."

"Well, let's start with what you are doing here," the Commander suggested. "You were heavily armed. And carrying a gonne. They're not just illegal here, they're... wrong."

"They're my tools of the trade," Dean told him simply. "I'm here Hunting, Commander Vimes. I'm a Hunter."

"And what do you Hunt, then?" asked Vimes, his copper's senses warning him that he was about to hear something that was going to throw a spanner in the works, a cat amongst the pigeons, a wolf amongst the sheep, and Corporal Pessimal into a dither about which was the correct form to fill in.

Dean looked him in the eye. "Vampires," he answered. "Vampires, and zombies, and ghouls, and any evil unnatural asshole who tries to hurt a human." His smile turned briefly, dangerously, feral. "If your Sergeant Angua showed her face on my turf, on my watch, and did so much as look sideways, I'd fill her so full of silver she'd be a tea strainer fit for the Queen of England." He looked down again. "Mostly, I get there in time."

Vimes gave him another searching look. "So, if you're_ here_, now," he said slowly, "Where's_ there_?"

Winchester scrubbed a hand over his face. "It's... complicated," he said tiredly.

"I am very good with 'complicated', Mr Winchester," Vimes told him smartly. "Only last week, I was called upon to explain to Corporal Pessimal the arrangements in place for remuneration of individuals after the pilfering of biscuits from the mess room reaches a certain critical level."

Dean looked confused. "There's a threshold of cookie theft before you do anything?" he queried.

"Well, up to a point, we just grab Corporal Nobbs and shake him upside down until enough for a new packet of Mrs Biddlestaff's Lemon Yoyos falls out," Vimes explained dismissively.

Winchester smiled wryly. "You might be better off asking the monkey dude, the Librarian," he said, "He's friends with the guy who's practically my father. They know about how it works. Anyway, that bloodsucking freak was..."

"Word to the wise, lad," Sam broke in, "Something tells me you can look after yourself in a fair fight, or possibly even in an unfair one, but the Librarian is an ape, and sensitive about it. I doubt that even you could defend yourself if three hundred pounds landed on your shoulders and decided to twist your head off."

The ghost of a smile that would make even one of Mrs Palm's most experienced Seamstresses swoon appeared on the too tired, too pretty, too old face. "Thanks for the heads up. Anyway, that asshole was a 120-year-old librarian. I'd been tracking him for a fortnight. He's been killing across the country, for fuck knows how long. My brother and I cornered him, but he went into this room full of books, and, it's difficult to describe, but the shelves went... weird..."

"L-space," nodded Vimes grimly, trying to decide whether this man was brave or suicidal to follow a senior librarian into it. "It's only marginally less dangerous than the Dungeon Dimensions, so I'm told. Some of the faculty will tell you it's more so."

"I had to," stated Dean with a shrug. "I couldn't let him go. Wherever he went, he'd just keep killing..." he stared down at his hands again.

There was a discreet tap at the door, and Igor came in with barely chipped and almost-clean mugs full of the vile brew from the urn in the mess that was laughingly called 'coffee'.

"I took the liberty of bringing two of Mthrth Biddlethaff'th bithcuiths, thir," he explained.

"Oh, Jammy Jimmys," smiled Vimes, "Spared no expenth, er, expense, I see."

"Yeth, thir. Thergeant Detrituth wath motht aththiduouth in hith corporal shaking."

Winchester nodded his thanks, and took a long gulp of the ghastly sludge with evident satisfaction. That just confirmed for Vimes that he was not dealing with a run-of-the-mill civilian.

"Well, you got your, er, I was going to say man," began Vimes.

"We use the term 'fugly' a lot," offered Winchester.

Sam couldn't help but snort in amusement; he'd have to remember that one. "Well, you got your fugly, Mr Winchester. But unfortunately, it's now my fugly, too. And corpses that aren't officially assassinated require explanation. I'd be much obliged if you'd accompany me to explain this to His Lordship. I expect his summons will arrive very soon. We can send someone to the University, ask for the Librarian to back your story up. He will, won't he?"

"Actually, I was kind of hoping I could talk to him about getting back... there. Home," Dean admitted sheepishly. "I didn't really think a lot about that at the time, but, er, Sam could probably do it, but I don't think I'm the librarian type..."

"Sam?" Vimes cocked an eyebrow of his own.

"My brother. The one who's nearly as big as your Captain Ironfoundersson? Carrot?" The strange man suddenly looked worried. "Seriously, he'll be going nuts wondering what the hell has happened to me."

"Well, we'll straighten this out as soon as we can, then," Vimes assured him. "Fortunately, Lord Vetinari is even better at 'complicated' than I have to be. Provided you promise him to go away and try very hard not to come back, I think he'll be remarkably understanding."

"Great," sighed Dean.

"Speaking of which," Vimes went on, "Three... two... one..."

There was a knock at the door that could only be described as sidling.

"Come in," Vimes called, as another watchman sidled into the room, "Right, right, tell the clerk that I and my... visitor will be along to meet His Lordship directly."

"Will do, Mr Vimes," replied the watchman, "It's amazing, how you do that mind-reading thing..."

"Call it a hunch. Oh, and send someone to the University to ask for the Librarian, will you?"

"Tell him I'm Sam's brother," Dean prompted. "They're acquainted. I never knew my brother could speak 'Ook', but life is full of little surprises."

"Indeed it is, Mr Winchester," sighed Vimes, as the watchman's arm sidled up to a salute, then he sidled back out of the room.

"So, you employ, er, apes in your police force - your Watch - as well?" asked Dean.

"No, that was Corporal Nobbs, he of the biscuit pilfering," explained Vimes. "He has a letter from His Lordship declaring that on balance of probabilities, he is human. Finish your coffee." He drained his own. "His Lordship doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"I guess I don't want an eyebrow cocked at me," Dean smiled.

"You don't. Believe me you don't. Come on." Vimes stood. "You can't save them all, son," he added quietly. "I've been in this job long enough to learn that."

"So have I," replied Dean, "But it doesn't ever get any easier."

"No, it doesn't." He headed for the door, motioning for Winchester to precede him, but hesitated. "You really hunt the undead where you come from?" he asked.

"The ones that hurt people," Dean nodded, that small feral smile making its way onto his face again. "You don't like 'em much, do you? Vampires."

"What I like or not doesn't come into it," huffed Vimes, in a remarkably Samesque manner, considering that he was S. Vimes rather than S. Winchester. "Not in these times of ethnic inclusion, tolerance, understanding and the embracing of diversity. Rocks, lawn ornaments, kibblemunchers, I got 'em all in my Watch. Even a damned bloodsucker, now."

Dean paused thoughtfully. "Maybe next time you take leave, you could consider a Hunting vacation."

"A Hunting vacation?" echoed Vimes, not understanding.

"Where I come from, we don't embrace vampires, we decapitate them," Dean grinned. "Maybe next time you're on leave, you should ask your Librarian to show you the way. Ask for Bobby Singer. He'll get in touch with me. I'll be your native guide. I'm sure we can roust out a nest or two for you to... embrace."

Sam Vimes smiled slowly, grateful that his instincts had steered him right on this man. "Maybe I'll do that sometime," he replied. "After you, Mr Winchester."

* * *

So, who's next? I was thinking that Bobby should visit Mustrum, for some fishing for Obstreperous Trout. And who would Crowley visit, I wonder?

Reviews are the Unexpected Winchester Inviting You Back To His Place To Decapitate Vampires In The Hunting Vacation Of Life!*

*If vampires aren't your thing, perhaps jelly babies instead.


	2. A Better Class Of Adversary

Greetings again, dear Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Droppers-In of the Jimiverse - long time no update! We have something of A Situation here, I'm afeared: my computer is dying, on application at a time (bad disk sectors are NEVER A Good Thing), and on top of that, the plot bunnies have all deserted me. Truly. They are all gone. I had to dig this one out after it whispered a little bit, then hopped into the compost bin, and wouldn't come out. Srsly. I've seen a couple peeking out at me, but they are conspicuously silent. I am astonished to discover, I kind of miss the aggravating little bastards, although once my husband has major carpentry on his knee I'm going to have stuff all time for any that do hop along for a couple of months... there's the Lars and Lemmy's first Hunt one (hiding behind the shelving in the garage, canNOT get it out), the Lampito take on the dreaded sister fic (last seen sprinting away into the long grass with my two dogs chasing it), and some more of these crossovers, some as requested by Teh Denizens (Ronnie and Angua, Bobby and Mustrum Ridcully, Jimi and Gaspode, Castiel and the Canting Crew, Death and DEATH, etc.) but the last I saw of any of them, they were disappearing down the creek on the flood after some particularly heavy rain (I swear one of them flipped me the big vee as they floated off downstream)...

Nonetheless, I thought I'd wring this one's neck to see if it encourages any others.

* * *

**A Better Class Of Adversary**

"There is something terribly elegant about finding a simple, uncomplicated solution," mused the visitor, taking in the scene before him with appreciation.

"The problem is, of course, that with any device, process or procedure, the more elaborate it becomes, the more opportunities there are for things to go wrong. I'm sure the Faculty of the University could explain it in terribly academic-sounding language impenetrable to us mere mortals," commented his host.

"That goes for plans and schemes of any sort," opined the guest. "The problem is, people get so caught up in their elaborate scheming, they forget the power of simplicity."

"Just so," nodded his host in agreement. "Complexity is often over-rated, and may frequently be discovered to be returning to sink its dentition most firmly into one's posterior."

They contemplated the man, who wore white trousers and a black and white striped top and dead white pancake make-up and clutched a large floppy hat with a sproingy flower drooping from the hat band.

"Where I come from, we call it Sod's Law," the shorter man replied, turning his head sideways. By doing so, he was able to read the large sign on the wall, written clearly in simple block letters, and helpfully placed upside down so that the mime dangling upside-down by his ankles over the viper pit was able to read them:

**LEARN**  
**THE**  
**WORDS**

"I have asked some of my clerks for their ideas, of course," the tall and elegantly dressed man explained, "And most ingenious they can be, too. One of them presented a design for a device to remove the desire to mime directly from a person's brain, should they be bad-mannered enough to don ridiculous outfits and insist on walking into imaginary hurricanes."

"Goodness me," commented Crowley. "Such a gadget would be even more useful if it was adjustable. For example, if you could recalibrate it to remove the desire to plunge a large and impolitely sharp knife between one's shoulder-blades..."

"Oh, Crowley," Vetinari almost smiled, "It's not good to go messing with what people think. Outside of traditional methods, anyway. It would not be... sporting. And really, who wants a bunch of mindless devotees when you could have numberless seething individuals plotting against you? Where would be the fun in that?"

"I suppose you are right, as usual," sighed Crowley, "Although it might do something about some of the graffiti we get on the wall of Dis. I mean, really, is 'wanker' that difficult to spell? I don't mind being insulted, but when they can't even be bothered to check the spelling, it's just, well, it's just vexing, is what it is. A man in my position is entitled to expect a certain minimum quality of detractor."

"Indeed," Lord Vetinari nodded in understanding. Strangely enough, the commander of the City Watch has made exactly the same assertion.

"Just out of interest," Crowley went on, "Once the desire to mime was extracted, what sort of state would the offender's brain be in?"

"Oh, there was a correspondingly ingenious device to pour it back into the offender's head after the extraction process," the Patrician replied readily. "The functionality, alas, would be greatly diminished, to the point of no functionality at all."

"You must admit, though, it would technically be effective," Crowley pointed out.

"Certainly," conceded Vetinari, "If you are satisfied to use a troll to crush a flea, as it were. But if people are to be relieved of the mental illness that is mime by inducing death, then I can think of at least two dozen ways to do it much more quickly, cheaply, and with considerably less collateral damage to surrounding carpet."

"It would be more humane to the vipers," Crowley added, "Has anybody ever bothered to ask them whether they are distressed to have a mime dangling over the only home that they have ever known?" He shuddered. "I know it would give me the screaming meemies."

Vetinari stopped in his tracks. "You know, I've never thought to ask," he admitted, looking thoughtful, and gestured for a clerk, who was instantly at his side. "I shall send to the University for one of the wizards. They're bound to have somebody there who can talk to the vipers. A Professor of Uncomfortably Obnoxious Zoology, perhaps. I certainly cannot condone cruelty to animals." With an authoritative wave, he sent the clerk on his way.

"If a prototype could be constructed, it might be good to give it a public airing, put on a bit of a show," Crowley reminded him. "Give the masses something to point and laugh at. Remind them who's boss."

"Your point of view, Crowley, is, as ever, refreshingly robust," the Patrician actually cracked a small smile. "They seem to be getting along well," he went on, indicating the desk where Clerk Drumknott and Orgle the fiend were in animated conversation over a number of folders and boxes. "It's very good of your... assistant to indulge him – his passion, and I think it's the correct word, for filing is the only thing that Drumknott has approaching a flaw. Get him started about archiving, and he can expound on the subject for hours without repeating himself."

"He may have found a soulmate," grinned Crowley. "Orgle is very keen on systematic filing, storage and retrieval. It's because he's worked his way up from the Pit," the King of Hell explained. "He has first hand experience with the day-to-day problems that the demons at the racks face. They don't want to be told that they're collectively forging the interactions of a viable shared commitment to a corporate vision, they want a practical solution to the problem of sorting out exactly whose liver is whose, and what kidneys go where, at the end of the working day."

"Assistants who can cut to the essence of an issue quickly are worth their weight in sapient pearwood," stated Vetinari, watching all of Orgle's mouths beam as Drumknott demonstrated a file labelling system of his own devising. "If you could spare him, I think we could arrange an attachment, an internship, for your... individual, Orgle. He seems like the up-and-coming type. And it would be good for Drumknott to have someone who shares his professional interest. I'm sure he could also offer some unexpected insights into our own business practices."

"That's a very generous offer," Crowley acknowledged, "But I'm not sure if he'll want to take it up. Orgle is a bit of a homebody, really. Truth be told, he's devoted to Gedda. Isn't he my darling?" Gedda looked up from where she was lounging comfortably with Wuffles the elderly terrier, and yawned. "I think they'd miss each other."

"Well, do consider it. Tea?"

"Please."

Another silently efficient clerk brought a tray of tea things, and they sat down in a couple of comfortable chairs by the small fireplace where the dogs were curled together. Crowley examined the motif on the cup that the Patrician offered him.

"What an unusual tea set," he commented, taking in the design that appeared to consist of an intricate stylised repeating pattern of a dog being patted by a man in a white coat.

"It was a present, from Lord Downey of the Assassins' Guild," smiled Lord Vetinari. "I'm told that he sent all the way to Agatea to have it made."

"Really?" marvelled Crowley. "Is it a traditional pattern, then?"

"Not exactly," explained the Patrician, "It's very similar to a classical design in which a warrior is holding a hunting dog on a leash, but if you look closely, you'll see that it is in fact a person performing a rectal examination upon said dog." He examined his own cup. "I've always been terribly impressed at the way they manage to get the dog's expression captured like that – it must take a very small brush and a very steady hand."

"It is very convincing," agreed Crowley. "What did Lord Downey want?"

"Oh, just to remind me that he dislikes me intensely," Vetinari waved a hand dismissively. "My nickname at school was Dog-Botherer."

"My nickname at school, I won't repeat in civilised company," sighed Crowley glumly, "And the last time somebody wanted to remind me how much they dislike me, they ate my tailor."

"Tailors, at least, are plentiful," Vetinari pointed out.

"Which is just as well, since there are two utter pillocks named Winchester who seem to shoot me with alarming regularity using rounds that contain, amongst other things, salt recrystallised from holy water, consecrated iron shot, shredded third class relics and sanctified dog crap. It happens more regularly than is polite, I tell you – I've lost more bespoke garments to Roger Ramjet and Rapunzel than I care to think about. They have no respect, no respect at all, for the work, craftsmanship and especially the expense involved with a bespoke seven fold cashmere and silk tie..."

"If you did not have such... engaging adversaries, Crowley, you would sit here and complain to me about how utterly boring your life is," Vetinari smiled indulgently. "Certainly, I derived an enormous frisson of enjoyment in presenting the Master of Assassins with a similar tea set, embossed with a tiger motif very similar to that which someone painted on his face whilst he was asleep one night, when we were seniors. The look on his face as he struggled to pretend that he liked it, and did not in fact have an urge to attempt to separate my head from my shoulders, is something that keeps me warm at nights."

Crowley looked thoughtful. "You might be onto something, Havelock. Perhaps I should send them something besides a wish for lingering and painful death next Christmas. I suppose I could say it with flowers, and send them a corpse plant. Or... you don't have actual carnivorous triffids here, do you?"

"I suppose I could ask the University Faculty," mused Vetinari, "They most likely have a Chair of Inconveniently Egregious Botany, or some equally learned fellow. I did a certain amount of study of such plants in my final year. The pollen of the Embarrassing Agapanthus is capable of inducing an amusingly high pitch in the male voice for several days, which might discombobulate young Roger, and a posy of Warthog Violets for his sister Rapunzel, well, the mere scent can induce the most astonishing warts overnight, guaranteed to make any young lady burst into tears and hole up with her own bodyweight in chocolate..."

"Oh, they're both male," humphed Crowley, "Not that you'd know to look at Rapunzel. I swear, that boy's hair gets longer every time I see him. It's like it has a life of its own. I sometimes wonder if it wanders about during the night." He paused. "Maybe a set of hair clippers would be suitable. Or possibly some hot rollers..."

"Indeed," nodded Vetinari as a clerk scuttled to his side and spoke urgently in a low voice, handing over a page of closely written text. "Dear me," sighed the Patrician as he scanned the document, "Duty calls I'm afraid, Crowley." He paused. "These men, Roger and Rapunzel, do they have another brother, one called Dean? Because I have just had the most extraordinary news from the Watch, concerning a man and his dog who appear to have arrived in the city under unusual circumstances, and, I quote the ever-diligent Sergeant Colon here, 'Could be a male Seamstress, sent Mr Vimes from zero to Extremely Aggravated in less than three seconds, smirks like an Assassin begging your Lordship's pardon and his dog walks through doors only doesn't wait for someone to open them first'..."

"Oh, bugger," snapped Crowley, "What the hell is it with those two bastards? I can't get a moment's peace! It's proof that God hates me. Or is, at the very least, trying to give me an ulcer."

"According to this, there is only one of them," Vetinari scrutinised the document.

"For now," Crowley informed him gloomily, "Sooner or later, there will be two. They come as a matched pair. Crap knows how he found his way here, but the other one will turn up. They're like fish and chips, like Bogey and Bacall, like Batman and Robin, like picnics and ants, like unwanted relatives and tacky Christmas presents, like public holidays and atrocious weather, like double drop chocolate chip cookies and self-loathing..."

"How very... intriguing," mused Vetinari. "Well, I shall have to deal with this. I do apologise."

"I don't envy you, Havelock," grimaced Crowley. "But if he should by some chance manage to irritate you to the point where you would like to dangle him over your viper pit..."

"Should that be the case, I would of course have you informed directly," Vetinari assured him, "And perhaps I could send someone out for some banged grains for you." He patted Gedda's head as she made her way to Crowley. "She is such a darling thing," he smiled at her. "Poor Wuffles is, I fear, approaching the end of his time walking this vale of tears, and I shall miss him dreadfully..."

"Should the occasion arise, have Drumknott get in touch with Orgle," Crowley told him, "And I shall keep an eye out for a suitable litter. They're not too difficult to find – the little buggers are always chewing on the racks when their first teeth come in. I tell the fiends and the duty torturer demons not to indulge them, they're going to grow into working dogs, I say, don't spoil them, I say – they get so many little tidbits dropped for them, it's a wonder my universe doesn't have the fattest Hellhounds anywhere..."

"Never underestimate the power of a pair of big puppy-dog eyes," smiled Vetinari.

"Wait until his brother Sam turns up," muttered Crowley grumpily. "Tata, then, Havelock. Oh, and if you should decide to throw Dean to the vipers, watch and make sure – the bastard has a most annoying habit of not staying dead."

"I shall be sure to remember that," Vetinari nodded as his guest took his leave.

Drumknott moved discreetly to his side. "The stamping noise growing louder suggests that Sir Samuel is headed this way as we speak," he observed. "Should I have the viper pit cleared?"

"Absolutely not," Vetinari smiled again, "Any man who can annoy Crowley and Samuel Vimes beyond all reason yet somehow walk away, not only still alive, but smirking, is clearly of the better class of adversary, and is far too interesting to dispose of. Besides, I'm worried about them now. I feel guilty of possible cruelty to animals. Have someone send to the University to see if they have someone who speaks Serpent."

* * *

Merry Apres-Christmas, and may all of you and your credit cards recover ASAP from the more hideous excesses of the season.

Reviews help me catch the bunnies - they are the Banged Grains (aka Popcorn) in the Gold Class Cinema/Viper Pit/Male Stripper* Revue Of Life!

*Yes, yes, I know whom you want to be your male strippers, you deviated pre-verts. Use your imaginations, and aim carefully with those chocolate sauce supersoakers, we just had the sofas steam-cleaned.


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